The One They Fear
by Collier World
Summary: In Tamriel, the province of Skyrim has known ages of peace. Now, a civil war threatens to tear the province in two. A High King has been slain, and prophecies foretell of the return of an enemy so ancient that time itself couldn't hold it at bay. From the ashes of defeat, one must rise. More than a hero, more than a foe. A Dovahkiin, a legend of ages. The Dragonborn.
1. Prologue: A Wound in Time

**The vast majority of the plotline, the characters, the settings, and the personalities do not belong to me. The writing and many of the fine details are mine.**

**Rating complaints and/or suggestions will always be taken into account.**

**Thank you, as always, for reading. Your attention, criticism, and enjoyment is the everlasting fuel of writers, and we can never tell you how much we really appreciate it.**

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You should have acted. They're already here.

The Elder scrolls told of their return.

Their defeat was merely a delay.

From the time after Oblivion opened.

When the sons of Skyrim would spill their own blood.

But no one wanted to believe. Believe they even existed.

And when the truth finally dawns, it dawns in fire.

But there is one they fear.

In their tongue, he is Dovahkiin

Dragonborn

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**Prologue**

**A Wound in Time**

The world was an old place. This, Hakon knew.

He had traveled it for many years. Once, he had been a smith's son from a village of Skyrim that knew little but wolf raids and famine. Then, for a time, he had traveled as a bard. Then, he became a soldier. Now, he was something else entirely. He had learned that such was the way of things: one was born, and then one grew. One changed. And then one died. Such was existence. Such was being human.

Hakon had lived with such a resignation ever since he had learned to put down his fiddle and flute, ever since he had hefted his axe and marched to blood. He had come to terms with the fact that he would die one day. Probably one day soon. He was not young, by any means. He could feel the age in his bones, the ache of his knees. It was a wonder a lucky arrow hadn't caught him already, slipping between the plates of his armor, or that some heroic lad hadn't managed to catch him leaving a auspicious opening when he was fatigued on the battlefield. He was no fool. One day soon he would make his final ride with Shor.

It mattered not. What was a human life compared to the world? Hakon would die; the world would go on. It was older than anything else that had ever existed, save perhaps the gods. But even the gods could be killed. The world just... went on. Hakon would die, and his sons would die, and their sons and their sons for a thousand generations, and the world would still be. Things were born; things died. It was the way of things, and whatever men called him, Hakon was just a man, and the world's age would roll over and consume him long before he found a way to save himself.

As far as the world went, he could see very much of it from where he stood. Hakon planted the blade of his battleaxe into the snow and leaned against its hilt, groaning a sigh of effort as he beheld the land of his birth, spreading before him like a map. In the distance, he could clearly make out the mountain ranges in which he had hunted as the young smith's son, ones he once thought were so tall that not even the gods would touch them. Such would have been anthills compared to where he stood. Below, at the base of the mountain, he could pretend that he made out the sliver of a river as it slithered through the valley, through the obscuring clouds that were deep enough and far enough down to make him question whether or not there was even a ground. The villages that lined the water periodically were impossible to even fathom at this height, but Hakon couldn't help squinting for them all the same, ignoring the tear or two that leaked from his eye as the wind tore them from his body. He tried not to think of how many of those villages may have been burning, even as he gazed down from an unfathomable height. Useless to do anything to save them.

The dragon traitor had convinced them that they needed to make their stand on the level of gods, on the foot of a terrain no man had ever dared tread before. Hakon trusted no one who betrayed his kin, and certainly not the dragon... but man had little choice left. They had walked down the path whose course must be stayed. Turning back was impossible. Hakon had no reason to trust the dragon, but their defeat was assured without him. It was believe the word of Paarthurnax the Traitor, or die. As Felldir had pointed out, the dice were almost assuredly weighted against them, anyway.

_It is a good day to die_.

Hakon had avoided thinking the thought as long as he could, but there was no longer any way he could pretend that their victory was likely. Hopelessness was as good as sticking a sword in your own belly on the battlefield, but dishonesty with oneself was even worse. A commander told his men what he had to in order to rally their spirits, but he was never able to lie to himself. Hakon had led his fair share of men into battle. Many women, as well. He knew perfectly what it was like to fight in a rout, on either side of the equation. He had lied to soldiers before they died. In the recess of his mind, though, Hakon wasn't quite sure he had ever been more convinced and accepting of his own death as he was standing at the peak of the tallest mountain in the realm, staring down at the land he loved, leaning into the wind and waiting for the end to come.

He blinked away the tears, pleased at least that none of despair had joined those forced forth by the wind. Born as far north as the world had ever known, Hakon was no stranger to cold and snow. On the top of this mountain with no name, however, he discovered that he had never known such winter. The corpse of his most recent enemy, a dragon at least twenty fathoms from snout to tail, was already half frozen, despite a belly full of fire that was likely still warm in death. Hakon glared at it harshly where it laid in the snow, wild drifts rapidly covering it over, and in a moment of fury he spat at it heavily. His spittle arced in the wind and froze before it hit the ground, bouncing far off of his target and skirting farther into the gale.

_That, _Hakon remarked to himself, _is too damn cold._

This was not a place that men should know. Should they fail, it was most likely a place man would never know again. So high up, that no one had ever cared to wonder even if a peak existed. So distraught and unbelievable that man had never deigned to christen it with a name. Why would they? It was a dark place, covered in snow and rock. It had taken the better part of a month to climb; Hakon hadn't seen vegetation or animal life in weeks. Nothing grew here. Nothing lived. It was a thin peak, jutting from a valley as though it were a body tugged sharply upward, burying its chest of stone into the clouds before it peaked above. Like it was teasing the gods. Or the gods were teasing man.

Standing on the edge of reality, Hakon felt very much as though the gods had simply reached down and hung the entire mountain by a fantastic noose, dangling the massive rock from the sky as if to hang the entire land below them. The ultimate joke of all time; man fated to die and never cease to wonder why they did. The thought was enough to draw a wry smile from Hakon in a moment of grim resignation. Imagining the world dangling from an endless rope strung around the mountain like a gasping throat was so ridiculous that he almost believed the gods would do it.

"The Throat of the World," Hakon grumbled aloud, perhaps at the wind or perhaps to himself. For all he knew, the tremendous wind was strong enough to carry his voice to the floor below, and he was really having an amiable conversation with scorched corpses. "That is the name I give to this place. As close as we will ever know the gods, and so mortally final that we can't help but choke on it."

Not that anyone would ever know that the mountain had a name, now. Not if they died.

"What's that, then, you wagging tongue?"

A weight slammed into him playfully. He barely reacted to it as his sister bounced off and settled into the snow a few paces off with a broad grin. Gormlaith was nearly fifteen years his junior, and acted forty younger, but even the hair at her crown was beginning to show a little grey. One would never know such from glancing at her expression; Hakon was still sometimes seized with the impression that she hadn't much matured past nine.

Gormlaith's free golden hair splayed on the wind, whipping around her face so violently Hakon was sure it must hurt. Her sister gave no indication of such. Poised on the rock next to him, so slight that he half-thought a good gust would blow her clean off of the mountain, Gormlaith appeared as though she were on a summer stroll through the plains. Her face was as blue with cold as was to be expected, and snow looked wedged into every crevice of her armor and face the same as Hakon, but the gleam of fire that lurked behind her blue eyes might have melted it all off. She was hunting, and four dragons already had felt the sting of her blade that day. The thought of such only made Hakon weary, but Gormlaith had hardly ever appeared more alive.

"A glorious day, brother!" Gormlaith roared over the wind. "Is it not?"

She had hardly been babe a when their father had been murdered. First on the road singing and dancing and then on the road marching angrily to battle, Hakon had done a wonderful job leaving her without a man to raise her for the first two decades of her life. By the time he truly knew his sister, she had grown as wild as the wolves they had been taught to slaughter as children, as fearless as an ice giant. And as foolish as a hound that stuck its head into a porcupine den because it wondered how sharp the quills were.

Hakon watched her bleakly, wondering where she summoned her glee from. _Perhaps you are just too old_, he told himself. _Perhaps you've just forgotten how to feel the glory of the battle._ But that was wrong. One of the earliest lessons he had learned with a weapon in his hand was that battle held no glory. Battle was done by men seeking glory on men seeking glory. Some died. The rest murdered. There was no glory in that. Hakon knew this far too well.

It was a lesson Gormlaith had yet to discover, and Hakon sighed on the Throat of the World, shaking his head and flexing his fingers against the hilt of his battleaxe to prevent them from freezing. "Have you no thought beyond the blooding of your blade, Gormlaith? Do you know nothing beyond the surge of the fight?"

His sister laughed, her trilling, deep voice rushing away on the wind as if his words were all part of an elaborate jest. "What else is there?"

Hakon closed his eyes and turned away. He loved his sister dearly—he'd lost half a dozen siblings to war or ruin, and he clung desperately to the only one he had left—but he feared with each growing day that Gormlaith's passion for the clash clouded from her all of what life was to him. She had never wed, never bore a child. She could not possibly know the anguish he felt at the thought that he might never see his sons again. Life to Gormlaith was a never-ending battle, and Hakon was not far past wondering when she would finally collapse, when her body would finally demand rest from an existence of punishment. How she had not fallen already was beyond him; Hakon had battled for much longer than she, and he was so tired. So tired.

"I fear that there will not be much else at all anymore," he told her. "The battle goes ill. The World Eater evades us. And for what I cannot say." He released a shuddering sigh of despair. The breath misted on the air so thick that it almost obscured the sight of his sister. "Perhaps the battle is already lost, and we have only to realize it for our defeat to become certain."

Gormlaith released a sound halfway between a growl of annoyance and another chuckle. "Your lack of faith is your undoing, Hakon. You and I have faced greater odds than these, and been crowned victor with plenty of room to spare. Don't place your head on the block unless you are truly willing to curl up and let a dragon swallow you whole. Victory will be ours. Only fools march to battles they can't win."

_Oh, my dear, _Hakon thought, desperately close to weeping. _How little you know. How much have I failed. How wayward your path began._

He was saved from prolonging his lament by the third member of their sad party of heroes sidling up on his other side. For how old Hakon felt, he could only imagine Felldir's weariness. The man had known a thousand engagements when Hakon was still in swaddling clothes, but his back was as straight and his sword as strong as the day the two men had met. Ancient crinkles covered Felldir's face, and a beard of solid silver hung in a braid to the man's breastbone. When he spoke, his winded voice was like a whisper that had been roared.

"The time is nigh, I imagine," the old hero murmured, staring down at the clouds with Hakon. "Before long they will be composing songs of this day."

"So you say," Hakon said, trying for the sake of his old friend to hold the desolation from his voice. "The World Eater delays, or he goads, or he taunts. Whatever it is, he does not come. Is all lost? Have we fallen into yet another trap of our enemy?"

"Nay, brother," Gormlaith roared. "Alduin has been cut and marked for our blades. His kin have fallen like sheep before us. He cannot ignore those who spell his doom."

Felldir glanced across Hakon at Gormlaith. The gaze was not disapproving, but... frustrated. Resigned, in a completely different way as was Hakon's. For some reason, that made Hakon feel all the worse.

The entire scheme was foolish and impossible, and Hakon had hated it from the beginning, but even he, in the end, had been forced to admit that they had no choice. Not a man, elf, or beast in Skyrim had not been scarred in some way by this war, and the dragon overlords were winning. There was no denying such a fact any longer. Each day the forces of man grew weaker and weaker, while the black Alduin terrorized the land and murdered the people of the realm. Even heroes had difficulty standing against the godly, and Hakon had never seen anything as godly as a dragon.

Their possibility at salvation rested on the word of a dragon, though. The only one who hated the plan more than Hakon was Gormlaith, but that was born of bloodthirstiness, alone. Hakon would sooner gouge out the eye he had left than trust the word of a dragon, and put even less stock in the word of a traitor, but their world was ending. The dragons were winning. Skyrim was dying. Their weapons were failing. The traitor had come from the sky and preached peace instead of fire, but it all could have still been a ruse. Just _claiming _that the blood of those monsters could run in the veins of a human... Hakon was so sickened by it that he could have taken his own head, if not for the knowledge that his head and his voice might prove the only things to save Skyrim.

If it was no trick. If Paarthurnax spoke true. If not...

"We have staked everything on this plan, my friend," Hakon said to Felldir, who crossed his arms and drew up a scowl of determination. "We have sacrificed so much for this chance. So many. Is it all for not?"

Felldir's scowl warped into a cringe of pain. Like Hakon, the old legend was most likely seeing the faces of their fallen friends. Galthor. Sorri. Birkir. Each one of them one of the finest warriors that Skyrim had ever given birth to, but all had fallen that day. If Paarthurnax lied, if the three of them were not strong enough to face the World Eater, it was all for naught. If Alduin did not rise to their challenge, it was all for naught. Hakon was no betting man, and every moment that passed made him wonder how many gambles of theirs recently had been entirely misplaced.

With the hand not grasping his hilt, Hakon seized the corner of his cloak and pulled it tighter over his plate armor, pretending it could ward off some of the deathly chill, as Felldir hummed and toned, "He will come. He cannot ignore our defiance. Not now. And why should he fear us? What reason has he?"

The words only dismayed Hakon further. "If he has no reason to fear us, then all is already lost."

"The others' failure does not assure ours, you oaf," Gormlaith cried. "They did not have Dragonrend. They did not have the voice of the monsters. _We _do, and we will not fail where our kinsmen have fallen. They will be avenged this day. Once we slay the monster, I promise I will have his head as recompense."

"I fear it may not be as simple as we have been led to believe," Felldir murmured in reply.

A growl of frustration tore from Hakon's lips. "I knew we could not trust the words of that murdering—"

"Do not blame the traitor," Felldir cut him off. The old man wrung his hands and stoically stared into the wind. Sometimes Hakon truly wondered whether or not the cold actually touched him. "I do not trust one who turns his back on comrades, but the words he gave to us were true to his knowledge. He knows our chances of failure as well as we do. He knows that he has likely sworn away his eternal life and salvation for our cause. Because our cause is right.

"Nevertheless... I fear even Paarthurnax may underestimate Alduin's strength. He is no lesser dragon, that can be taken with arrow and sword. No... with the Voice of the Dragons on our side or not, the World Eater may well be beyond our strength."

Hakon and Gormlaith exchanged a glance of unease, and the relief Hakon felt at the worry his sister finally denoted was dwarfed by his sadness at hearing his old friend admit what he himself had already resigned himself to.

As a grim resolution set into his soul, Hakon turned with his friend and stared into the tempest of the ages, bowing his head. "So it is finished, then, truly. We stand once more, on top of the world to end all things of mankind."

"Perhaps," Felldir replied. As Gormlaith opened her mouth to say something, the old man unshouldered the pack he had carried relentlessly up the mountain and let it drop to his feet. It landed with a crunch in the harsh snow, its flap thrown back in the wind, revealing the roller of a scroll, pointed and elaborately carved. The shade of paper visible was golden and yet not golden; its color seemed to fluctuate as quickly as the wind flowed. As Hakon glared upward with furious, shocked eyes, Felldir offered the ghost of a wry, grim grin. "Perhaps not."

"Felldir!" Hakon roared. "We agreed! We agreed not to bring it to this place! Should that fall into the wrong hands—"

"I never agreed, One-Eye," Felldir replied, fingering his beard on the breeze. He turned his eyes back over Skyrim, contemplative. "And I, above all others—I, the only one who chose to study it—I am the one who knows more than anyone else how dangerous this would be in an enemy's hand."

"It is not only dangerous to possess! It is dangerous to _use_, even should our intentions be good! Even you don't understand it, not in the slightest. Misusing it could destroy this entire mountain—it could tear Skyrim from the map!"

"And Alduin with it," Felldir murmured. The old man turned to Hakon with determined eyes. "The power inside this scroll is above all others. It is older than the world, perhaps older than creation itself. Older than Alduin. Should our Voices fail us, this scroll may be the only chance we have, Hakon."

"It is _not _worth the risk!" Hakon retorted. He turned to face his teacher, letting his cloak billow out as he seized the man gently by the elbows. The pack sat by their feet; Hakon was afraid to touch it, lest even that contact set off an unexpected reaction. To think that Felldir had carried it up the mountain with them for the _entire quest_! "This power... It is beyond men. It is too dangerous to use. It could destroy the world!"

"Is the world not to be destroyed anyway?" Before Hakon could devise something else to say, Felldir sighed and glanced at him. "Have hope yet, my friend. If Gormlaith is right, and Alduin proves but a large foe, we shall have no use of it. Should our strength fail us, however..." The old man bent over to pick his pack up, and slid it back over his shoulders over the sheath of his massive greatsword. "I will hesitate if our options fail us, Hakon. If this stand of ours proves to be the last of heroes at all, I will use the scroll to destroy Alduin. Do not doubt that I will."

There was no use arguing with Felldir. Hakon had tried before, and if he did not lose then he could never pull a resolution from it. He glared at the pack, trying to convince himself that the trembling of his fingers on the hilt of his battleaxe was only from the cold. There were many things in the world he was afraid of—in his experience, only the foolish and the damned had no fears—but none of them came close to his fear of the scroll. If he could have, he would have returned to the moment they found it and left it right where it came from. Felldir actually attested that traversing the boundaries of time may have been possible with the power of the scroll, but Hakon would die a thousand brutal deaths before acquiescing to such idiocy. Still... better to have never found it at all, better to live in complete ignorance, than to carry it around like a magnificent piece of stone to be prodded and studied, as Felldir approached it.

First their only hope rested with a traitor dragon, and now it might have ridden on an enigmatic phantom so obscene and absolute that Hakon wasn't even sure he could comprehend how incredibly horrible it was. Was their fight truly this doomed? No, they couldn't let it be. They couldn't let themselves be forced into unleashing the world's most perverse weapon. They had to succeed.

"It will not be used," Hakon hissed vehemently, wrapping his hands firmly around his hilt. "It will not be needed. We will deal with Alduin ourselves, here and now."

Felldir nodded, but it looked far too much like a grown man comforting a clueless child than an agreement. "I pray for it, my friend. I pray very much for it."

"We shall see soon enough," Gormlaith muttered. Hakon started, nearly having forgotten she was there. His sister had moved several places away, placing a booted leg atop a rock and glaring off into the storm on her own. As the two men turned to her, she turned to face them with a face torn between glee and anxiety. "Alduin approaches."

On the heels of her words, a roar as tall and as broad as the mountains of Skyrim rent the wind in half.

Felldir leaped away, dancing through snow as though it were soft grass. His greatsword was in his hand in moments, drawn so fluidly that Hakon barely saw it go. With Gormlaith at his side with her sword in hand as well, the two darted into the crevice atop the peak, where they planned to make their stand. As another earsplitting, terrorizing howl broke the sky, Hakon muttered a last prayer, a prayer to his dead parents, a prayer to his dead friends, a prayer to all who had been lost and all who would never be should they fail.

_Please. Please, may our voices be strong. Please, may our blood be thick with the dragon kin._

He took hold of his battleaxe in both of his hands and heaved it into the air, running to join his allies. The three of them stood side-by-side in the wind, weapons bared, glaring at the white sky with the resignation of an end. It was not snowing; all that was in the air was being kicked up by the gale and swirled about as though they were in the heart of a blizzard. The vortex was still plenty strong to blanket the sky in an impregnable blanket of white, however. How Gormlaith had spotted their assailant so early was beyond Hakon, but she _had _always possessed the better eyesight of the two of them, even when he still had both of his.

They three stared into the storm, veterans of hundreds of battlefields, and waited patiently for the end to come.

The World Eater descended like a falling star.

From the midst of the storm, a dragon so black that it seemed to bleed darkness into the very sky plummeted out of the hail and landed with an earth-shaking blast on top of a ledge of rock directly before them. Talons as long as Hakon's arms seized hold of stone, anchoring the awesome beast to the mountain as wings wider than warships folded against a scaled body of obsidian. From behind a snout and maw of hundreds of daggers, the red eyes of death itself glared down at the three humans. Hakon wasn't entirely sure what a dragon laughing would sound like, but the mocking, horrible drawl that tore itself from the creature's fiery throat sounded much the estimation he could summon.

Alduin's chortle died, but was replaced immediately by a voice as dark as the void. The words crashed over Hakon like a wave of freezing water, in a language that no human ear could ever understand. To Hakon, though, and possibly Gormlaith and Felldir, as well, the words held an interpretation. Hakon could still not understand them, but he could feel the darkness therein. He could touch the hatred, the fury, the blind madness that spewed from the World Eater's throat in the language of the dragons. In many ways, it was far more terrifying than the appearance of the beast itself was.

_At least I can feel its understanding_, Hakon thought awfully. _That means I'm not entirely human. That's a good sign. _The thought was as comforting as it was sane.

Beside him, somehow, Gormlaith summoned the courage to cackle and bellow, "Let the heroes of Sovngarde envy us this day!"

The World Eater glared at them in his pure black hatred. Black wings unfurled, and their death prepared to vault itself into the sky.

It was the cue they needed. As one, the three heroes lowered their weapons and reared back. Hakon didn't know from wherein the power came. He didn't understand what his blood allowed him to do. From somewhere within his belly a fiery gulf emerged, forcing itself upwards with a vengeance. It was not a sickening feeling; it did not seem as though he were about to lose his stomach. On the contrary, Hakon had never felt more alive. The supremacy rushed through his limbs and filled his heart. His limbs burst alive. His mouth gaped as if to disgorge fire. The word of the dragons. The gift from the traitor. It was ecstasy in its purest form, so sweet and unparalleled that Hakon never wanted to release it. He wanted to contain this fantastic power forever.

That was far more terrifying to him than Alduin himself.

From the mouths of the three heroes, a grotesque, unnatural howl burst forth, their lips forming words none of them could truly grasp. The words left them and became something else. They were no longer simply words; they manifested on the air. They coalesced in a haze and rolled into a mist, which became a fog and was then crushed into a _force_.

As the World Eater took the air, the force rushed before them and slammed into the dragon's body. The effect was instantaneous: Alduin roared in fury and pain, his wings twisting and contorting in agony. The blast of air and sound from the impact ricocheted, and slammed into the heroes so hard that a shockwave ripped the snow from the ground and threw it outwards while the humans crashed to the ground. The three all scurried their way back to their feet as the World Eater's wings beat desperately at the air through the pain, but it was no use. Dragonrend had him.

Hakon braced himself as the gigantic beast fell from the sky. There was no graceful gripping of the rock this time; Alduin plunged and landed hard, shaking the ground around them as he slammed into the cold rock of the mountain and wailed in his black tongue. This time, the terrible words that the dragon spewed forth were in the language of Skyrim, and Hakon could understand them. "What have you done? What twisted Words have you created? Paarthurnax! You fool! You craven, fireless traitor! My teeth at your neck! My talons at your eyes! You will freeze for this!"

The three humans did not hesitate. As soon as Hakon had his feet beneath him, he roared a battlecry and charged at the beast. The words of the traitor were clear: the World Eater was weakened and vulnerable, but the effect was not permanent and they had no gap for error. The traitor himself was supposed to be there, per their plan, but there was no sign. No matter; it was a battle for the glory of men, not the redemption of dragons, and their Voices had worked. There was hope left for them. They still had a chance.

A blue hue surrounded the black dragon, the remnants of their shout, clinging to its scales and flesh, burning into him with its effect. The beast was mortal now, mortally susceptible and mortally cursed. Paarthurnax had warned that the effect would be as crippling mentally as it would be physically: for Alduin, the weakness he felt would be akin to losing all limbs suddenly. It left a window for them to strike. And strike they had to.

The dragon roared as Hakon set into its left flank, forward the wing. His battleaxe hacked for the World Eater's neck, and the dragon writhed as his first brutal strike dented and shattered scales. The beast thrashed, using its neck as a weapon in its shock. Hakon ducked, but was too late to avoid the blow. He was taken full above the waist and knocked several feet through the air to land in the snow. Somehow, he managed to keep hold of his battleaxe, and stumbled back to his feet, grunting in pain.

Felldir had charged the beast's hindquarters, and was slashing at the base of its tail and the muscle's of its hind legs, deftly avoiding the tail's spikes as Aludin lashed out at him. Gormlaith had shown much less caution; she had leaped directly at the World Eater's maw, slicing at spikes and stabbing for the dragon's eyes, laughing giddily as she did so. _The fool!_ She would get herself chewed to bits, whether or not the dragon was weak!

Summoning the strength to roar anew, Hakon raised his axe and charged back in, clenching his legs for a leap that propelled him high into the air and allowed him to bring his weapon down hard on the ridge of scales protecting Alduin's spine. The blow landed and sank in; Alduin roared in pain, temporarily letting Gormlaith get purchase with a stab at the creature's jaw.

Black blood oozed hot from around Hakon's battleaxe as he wrenched it free, but he had landed on the dragon's back and was forced to leap off as the body shuddered beneath him. Worse still, the monster managed to land a slash at Felldir, finally, and Hakon watched his old friend go hurtling into a snowbank, lurching back to his feet very unsteadily.

_It's not working_, Hakon realized, frantic and urgent despite the blood dripping from his axe. His sister still dodged the World Eater's teeth with elven agility and Felldir was back up, but Hakon could still feel the terror of an outmatched fight setting in. _Weak or not, this is not enough. He is not vulnerable enough. His hide is too thick, his muscles too strong. He is strengthening again._

No sooner had he thought the thought than did one of Alduin's legs take him from behind as he attempted another smash. His axe went flying from his hands as he careened through the air. Both he and the blade clattered off of a rockface, collapsing to the snow. He pushed himself to his hands and knees weakly, his vision swimming. The handle of his axe evaded him until his third attempt to grasp it, and only then as he staggered to his feet did he realize that the dragon's dark laugh again ruptured the air.

"You think to defeat me?" the World Heater howled, smashing his winged claws into the ground. The blue hue was vanishing. As Hakon watched, Alduin raised his maw to the sky and a spray of fire as wide as a river burst forth. "You believe your puny voices can match those of an emperor? Your world will burn! Your children will burn! I am Alduin, Lord of the Dovah, God of Destruction, and you will die in terror! Hear my voice and despair!"

Alduin's head came down. Hakon watched the beast's mouth spread wide, and then the World Eater's jaws clamped down over the tiny body of his little sister.

"NO!"

The beast lifted Gormlaith into the air and whirled. Her body hurtled through the air, already smoking and charred. Hakon screamed as it slammed into another face of rock, hard enough to jostle snow and fall halfway into a drift. Gormlaith rolled onto her face and was still. She had not even had a chance to cry out.

"NO!" Hakon roared again, bursting to his feet. Screeching, he charged at Alduin as the monster laughed anew. "Damn you, no!"

His battleaxe bit into scales, dislodging black flakes and spilling forth new blood, but it didn't seem as if the World Eater even felt the blow. Hakon landed two more before he was knocked aside by the full blunt force of a wind striking him from the front. When he had landed, he had flown over thirty paces away from Alduin and his axe was gone. Blood was dripping onto the snow beneath him, and when he tried to hoist himself up he discovered that his wrist was bent like an extra joint.

Had he anything left in his stomach to empty, he would have there. As it was, he could only groan as strong hands took him by the shoulders and heaved his massive frame upwards. Hakon clung to Felldir as the older man hoisted him up. His friend had a gash on his temple, as well, and the tips of his beard were scorched black with fire, but he still clutched his greatsword in his hand. All the same, Hakon cringed, expected the licks of flames to descend upon the pair of them at any second.

Instead, he glanced up to find Alduin rearing back on his hind legs, roaring to the sky. The remnants of their collective shout were almost gone. Their Voices had failed. In only moments, Alduin would be as strong as he had ever been, and they would be doomed. Their plans had failed. Their war for freedom and justice was ended.

"All hope is lost," he mumbled to Felldir, hardly believing the words to be passing his lips. He had never given up before, not once in his life. What was there now? What hope was there left, what little sliver of salvation to cling to?

"All is not lost," Felldir snapped over the wind. Hakon glanced up blearily at his friend, to meet the grizzled old man's fiery eyes. "There is always hope, Hakon. There is always a way. We have a way."

Hakon blinked at his friend, his mouth gaping wide in pain and desperation. His eyes drifted over Felldir's shoulder as Alduin roared at the sky, catching a glimpse of the roller poking out of the top of Felldir's pack. With a shaking jaw that may have been broken as well, Hakon's gaze fumbled its way back to Felldir's.

"No," he whimpered miserably. "No. It's too dangerous. We can't use it."

"We have no choice, Hakon! It is our _only_ hope! It is the _only _thing in this world capable of stopping Alduin! If we do not use this weapon that we have at our disposal, mankind is doomed! The dragons will rule in tyranny forever! This is our only key to victory and we must use it!"

His eyes felt heavy. He could feel something wet seeping in-between the plates of his armor. The World Eater's maw ripped open and a column of flames broke across the sky once again. His feet felt like lead. He was old, so old. And the world was not. It would go on without him, without mankind, not ever caring what it had left to the mercy of the dragonlord. Perishing would not be so bad at all, if it let him rest.

On the verge of unconsciousness, Hakon found Gormlaith's body in the snow, down and finished, the last ring of her gay laughter still echoing somewhere in the wind.

Hakon One-Eye did not accept defeat. Hakon One-Eye would die on his feet, with a weapon in his hands, with the honor of mankind flooding his limbs.

He seized the hilt of Felldir's greatsword in his good hand, groaning with the effort of raising its full weight in his weak grasp. He stumbled away from his friend, bearing his entire weight, and turned to charge the World Eater. He could barely stand, let alone walk, much aside march, but this was the end of all things, and Hakon would meet it in strength. Like a northman. "Preach strong, old man. Skyrim depends on your voice."

With a cry as much filled with angst and agony as it was with fury, Hakon broke into a sprint, ignoring everything but the bloody, furious sight of Alduin settling back onto his haunches. Allowing any other thought into his mind might have caused him to collapse instantly from exhaustion, but he refused to let it. Nothing existed except for the dragon before him, the sword wrapped furiously in his hand, and his sister's dead body, already freezing in the snow.

Hakon didn't give the World Eater the satisfaction of getting off a laugh before he set into the beast. The greatsword was more maneuverable than his axe, allowing him to land several more hits in a broader range, albeit with less force. Alduin only swiped a single claw at him in retaliation, even as his greatsword sank into the dragon's flanks, but that claw was enough to tear into him, slicing through his plate armor and spilling open a wound in his wide that gushed fresh blood. No matter; the cut was hard but not deep, and even though his sword was only managing to dislodge scales or only briefly enter flesh with each strike, he was only a distraction.

The monster laughed as Hakon stumbled backwards, hacking defensively at the next set of talons that tried to tear of his face. The force of the impact set him back on his arse, though he managed to avoid letting any of the sharp instruments touch his skin. The snow surrounding his chosen vantage was painted crimson; he could not keep this kind of fight up long, whether or not he was aiming to survive it.

He did not need to, however. Hakon danced completely out of the way of a swat by Alduin's tail, but even as he leaped through the air in a mad attempt to escape, Felldir's epic voice filled the wind. "Hold, Alduin on the Wing! Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard..."

A clip of the World Eater's wing struck Hakon on the back of the head, making his word blacken for a moment before returning, but he had managed to miss the brunt of the blow. Frantic, he dove underneath Alduin's body, rolling up on the other side, sparing only a moment to hack uselessly at the beast's flanks before darting into motion again. The rumble in the World Eater's chest meant he had little time left; Alduin had been toying with him as the beast's power resurged, but was now growing annoyed.

_Only a little longer_, Hakon pleaded, feeling his legs start to crumble beneath him. The armor he wore was so heavy. He almost slipped in the bloody snow—By Shor, but he was tired! _Only a little longer and you can rest with Gormlaith..._

Felldir's voice rang high. The world had never known a more important tone. "Begone, World Eater! By words with older bones than your own we break your perch on this age and send you out!"

Hakon had only the briefest of warnings, the slightest feeling of heat licking at the air around him, to realize what was about to happen. He heard the surge behind him even as he cried out and launched himself on dead legs at the ground.

Flames encompassed him, hotter than lightning. He screamed as they seared his flesh, wrapping him up and washing away his determination, his fury, his anguish, everything except for the white hot pain. He hit the snow and its cold almost killed him on the spot, with the fire burning him in the process. As he hit the ground, he somehow rolled out of the stream of light and threw himself into the cold as he screamed in agony.

Thrashing against the snow, he mercifully felt the flames dissipate on his cloak and in his hair, on the little skin he had exposed. His armor had shielded him from the worst of the heat and he was none the worse for wear than some burns that would agonize come morning, but that was the least of his worries.

He tried to summon strength to scramble back to his feet, knowing that another stream of fire would be on the tails of the first, to burn him to a cinder, to end his life for once and for all, but there was nothing left for him to call forth. He was spent. There was nothing left for him to do but lay and die and give Felldir the final moments to complete their only hope at victory.

Instead, a roar went up above him, and Alduin reared back, rounding towards where Felldir stood in the snow, the wind whipping around him, snowflakes pelting through the air in a vortex surrounding the ground he stood upon, holding the scroll aloft and reading from it with blazing eyes. The World Eater seemed to have finally realized what was happening. The beast had finally recognized Felldir for the true threat.

The old man's eyes lifted for the briefest of moments, and saw the dragon round on him, but he turned calmly back to the scroll and kept reading as he stared down utter destruction. "You are banished!"

The World Eater dug into the snow with both claws and dragged himself forward with a roar, towering high above the humans. Hakon watched him go, frantically trying to make his legs work again. Rising on his hind legs, Alduin stood tall and stretched his mouth wide. The embers of flames flared in the deep of the beat's throat.

"We shout you out from all your endings..."

Alduin bent to end mankind.

Hakon screamed, seized the greatsword with his broken wrist, and threw it as hard as he could. The weapon tumbled end over end, majestically slow, buffeted by the winds of a mountain so tall that gods would merely have to reach down to brush it. On the wings of angels, the blade struck the World Eater on the flank by the hind leg, and sank halfway to the hilt. Alduin reared up, roaring in pain so loud that Hakon cried out and clapped his hands to his ears.

Above even the dragon roar, Felldir's voice eclipsed all else. "...unto _the last_!"

The air exploded. From the dragon's body outwards, a shockwave of air burst and hurtled anything in its path from its way. Hakon watched Felldir get knocked from his feet, watched snow build in a wave until it crashed over his body. Somewhere above, Alduin screamed. A bright light appeared everywhere and nowhere at once, and, abruptly, all of the air that was rushing out froze. The wind on top of the mountain stopped. Even Hakon's breath seemed to die.

In a moment, the atmosphere completely reversed course and was instantly sucked back in. The snow vanished, the wind imploded. Hakon was lifted off of the ground and thrown forward, where he landed on his back with a roar. The light brightened, intensified, searing out all other images in its path. Closing his eyes did little to shut out the blinding force; it seared through his eyelids. Somewhere very close and very far away, a black cry as dark as death and as sorrowful as loss broke the world in half.

Then all was still.

Hakon lied in the snow with his eyes closed, wondering whether he was still alive. His body felt dead. His mind felt dead. Experimentally, he tried to move what he could feel, and when that didn't work, he tried his frozen fingers instead. A second attempt was needed before he could finally induce them to wiggle, and then he finally opened his eyes.

The Throat of the World was leveled. The snowcover of their battleground had been burst into a crater in which Hakon lay, except for the very middle; there, no snow was present at all. The lights had vanished. The wind had returned, as blisteringly biting and furious as ever. The sky was white. There was absolutely no sign of Alduin the World Eater.

Hakon lifted himself to a sitting position, moaning in agony as he did so. His back felt broken. His legs insisted that he had tried to climb a mountain in a day. He was still bleeding, probably from a number of places, but the cut on his side had slowed to a trickle. Perhaps it had frozen. He realized that he would probably live, with surprise. And just a hint of regret.

As he pushed his way to his feet, Felldir did the same from a short distance away. Hakon glared at him harshly as the old man picked himself up. "Well? Is it done?"

His friend glanced around the peak of the mountain, almost in confusion. That did not bode well with Hakon, but he held his tongue, watching Felldir observe their surroundings. After several moments had passed, the old man finally looked back at Hakon—uneasily—and murmured, "Alduin is... defeated."

Hakon sagged, nearly dropping to his knees. Instead, he turned towards one of the rock faces of the peak, where a snowdrift was already beginning to pile on top of a shape. Howling in grief, Hakon tore towards it and fell back to his knees, shoving snow aside with his hands until he could seize hold of the armor beneath.

Falling backwards, he pulled Gormlaith into his arms and wept. Her eyes were closed, rimmed by scorched skin that had died too quickly to properly burn. Her pretty features appeared almost peaceful; there was still a faint hint of that laugh caressing her lips. His sweet sister. His sweet, warhungry, foolish, poor, beautiful sister.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. Her skin was freezing. A tear dripped from his cheek and froze before it reached Gormlaith's hair. Weeping harder, Hakon gathered the golden strands together and draped it over her shoulder, holding her tight. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there. I should have been there. You needed a brother and I was gone. I should have come home. Please forgive me.

"But we won, Gormlaith. We were victorious. You were right. You're a hero."

He told her that they'd won, over and over and over again, praying that she heard him on her way to Sovngarde, where she would rest like a hero should until he joined her. He wept until the tears froze in his beard, until his legs were nearly frozen to the ground, continuing to mutter how proud he was of his sister, how much he loved her. Only when blood began to stain the snow under her body did he gently lay her in the snow and stand, looking down at her.

Slowly, his tears stopped. His nose continued to run. He glanced up and found Felldir at his side. The old man still clutched the scroll at his side. Their two eyes met before the older of them glanced up, many feelings dancing across his features. Grief, resignation, exhaustion... but as the old man's eyes glanced around the peak, Hakon saw that the confusion had not dissipated.

"What is it?" he rasped.

Felldir didn't answer him straight away. The old man glanced about them, then at the scroll in his hand, before uneasily shaking his head. "I am not certain."

An anger rose in Hakon's chest. Their war had been won, at the cost of Gormlaith's life. What more did the man need? "The World Eater is destroyed. The threat is vanquished. Mankind has its freedom. What else can possibly trouble you?"

No answer rewarded him. Hakon watched the old man's eyes for several long moments. The realization hit him hard and instantly, like an arrow hurtling out of the midst of the storm, so final and crippling that he almost keeled over in the snow.

"The World Eater is _destroyed_, yes?" He couldn't help the desperation in his voice. Before he could register what he was doing, he had seized Felldir by the shoulders and was shaking the man. "Tell me the World Eater is destroyed, Felldir! Tell me!"

Despite the violent action, Felldir's gaze was only sad and worried. Not angry. "Hakon... I fear..." The old man hesitated and carefully stepped out of Hakon's grip, showing impressive fortitude to do so. He glanced mournfully down at Gormlaith, closing his eyes and shaking his head, before turning back to Hakon. "I fear that the scroll was not powerful enough to destroy Alduin. Or, rather, Alduin was too powerful for the scroll to destroy."

"What are you talking about?" Hakon shouted, beginning to panic. "If he's not destroyed, then what happened to him? Where did he go?"

"That, my dear friend," Felldir murmured, "is the question. Furthermore, I believe it is the wrong question." Hakon was beyond patience, but the gaunt look that Felldir suddenly took on made him pause in his tracks. Felldir was old, for sure, far older than Hakon was; but never before had it occurred to Hakon that Felldir was _old_. In that moment, with a thousand emotions flickering over his face, for the first time that Hakon could remember, Felldir looked _old_.

The old man glanced up at Hakon wearily, as though he were an ancient explaining something he did not truly understand. "I believe the better question is _when_."

Hakon blinked. Snow pelted his face. He stammered briefly before he managed to mutter. "Felldir... what are you saying?"

"The scroll's power is not rooted in our world," Felldir explained horribly, his eyes making it appear as though he were whispering an omen. "It does not belong here. It never has. Who can say where it came from, but where it came from, the worlds are different. The dimensions are different. When I used it, I thought that I was weaving a purge to destroy Alduin, but now... that light..."

Felldir took several steps towards the center of the crater, where Alduin had disappeared. Hakon watched him go, shocked, piecing the rest of the puzzle together in horror even as Felldir laid it out for him. "The scroll didn't consume him. It created a hole in the fabric of our dimension. A wound into suspension, between the worlds."

"Felldir," Hakon groaned, struggling to understand. "What does that mean?"

"It means that Alduin is not destroyed. It means that the scroll tore him from our dimension. We have sealed him in a time wound on this mountain, a time wound which will suspend him indefinitely in between the worlds until a time when the wound once again weakens." Felldir turned back from the crater, catching Hakon's gaze. "At which time Alduin will be released unto the world once more."

A hammer of the gods struck Hakon in the temple, and he plopped to the ground in disbelief, in terror. "By Shor," he muttered, glancing at the sky, letting snowflakes whip into his burning eyes. "What have we done? We have destroyed the world!"

"No," Felldir muttered. "Not yet."

"Yes, we have!" Hakon insisted horribly. A life of heroics, a life of sacrifice, a life of death and decay and madness and grief... and this was what he found at the end? How could he? "We have taken our demon and thrust it into another time, where it will ravage Skyrim anew! We have not vanquished our enemy, we have it a new key to success! We have sentenced Skyrim to doom."

The old man paused, listening to the wind, staring into the cold, and eventually shook his head. "All is not lost, my friend. Alduin is not undefeatable. We saw that much today."

Hakon looked down at his sister into the snow, and drew her back into his arms, scoffing at his friend. "He was slaughtering us, Felldir. He _murdered _Gormlaith! We never stood a chance against him! Whether or not we made him mortal, it was a far cry from sending him to the grave."

"Heroes will rise," Felldir replied, half as if he had not even paid heed to Hakon's words. "Of a different age. Better heroes. Stronger heroes." The old man glanced at the sky; he was already contemplating. Calculating. "They will be trained. They will be prepared. Skyrim will defend its freedom."

"How can mankind stand against that?" Hakon protested. "We possessed the voice of monsters. We are _abominations _to our own race, and _we _could not even defeat the beast! How does Skyrim stand a chance against destruction?"

Felldir lowered his eyes from the sky and glanced at Hakon. They had changed on the mountain. Something snapped in that moment. Whatever had really happened, the scroll had altered things forever. Hakon held tightly to Gormlaith's dead body, tears forming anew, staring at his old friend on the top of the world in the darkest moment that the world had ever known.

In the end, Felldir hummed and said, "Then the abominations like us will be the heroes, Hakon. They will hold their ground against the darkness and they will stand against the night. They will conquer the World Eater and they will bring peace and prosperity in its place. And they will be sung of until the ends of time."

Felldir turned away from Hakon, and the man with one eye wasn't entirely sure that the man who had been his old friend hadn't finally passed away. They were different. They were all different now. Now Hakon would have to climb down the mountain, carrying Gormlaith's body with him. He would see his sons again, something he had dared to hope for. The world would know a peace. For a time.

How could he live? How could he continue, knowing what they had done on top of the mountain? His sister was dead, their nemesis survived, and, if they knew where he was, they had no way of striking him and absolutely no way to know when he would attack next. What hope was there? What light was there still to find in the world?

_Gods save us_, Hakon begged, and then thought of the heroes with utter dismay. _Gods save _you.


	2. I: Helgen's Dirge

**Allow me an aside: I do not plan on making this into a Tolkien epic. That is, with a bunch of little encounters and events and stuffs and so forth. With that being said, the very nature of Skyrim may require that I toss in a sidequest or two here and there. Right now, I intend to carry this to conclusion, but my incessant and annoying attention to detail, if you can't already tell, this seems like it is going to be long. Very long. Also with that being said, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going, how I'm going to get there, or what we're going to do on the way. I guess we'll just figure it all out together.**

* * *

When misrules takes its place at the eight corners of the world

When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped

When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles

When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls

When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding

The World Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn.

* * *

The 17th Day of Last Seed

In the 201st Year of the Fourth Era

* * *

**I**

**Helgen's Dirge**

The cobblestone road was imperfect, filled with notches and gaps and uneven placements. It helped the fourth prisoner of the wagon ease his way back to consciousness as the cart jolted unhappily over several of the road's blemishes.

It had not been an easy slumber. As far as the prisoner could remember—which wasn't very far at all—it had not been voluntary, and the strong ache that plagued the back of his head as his senses swam back to him corroborated the inhibition. Only when he began to stir did he notice that his hands were bound together, that his back was sore, that he had been lying in one position or altogether too long. It was a startlingly familiar sensation, which made it all the more annoying, but as he fought his way back to consciousness he couldn't recall how he'd come to be in this strange situation. That itself suggested his head hurt far worse than he could currently feel.

Stifling a groan, he managed to open his eyes and blink against the sun. It hung low in the sky, not quite flirting with the horizon but firmly removed from the center of the sky. The prisoner was completely disoriented, having no clue which way was north, but he had trained himself at a young age to know the subtle differences between midmorning light and afternoon light. Judging by the tinting shade that hit the surrounding trees, he judged it to be nearing sunset. The last thing he could remember was morning, so it was a reasonable guess. Unless he had really been unconscious for a _long _time.

Another jolt of the cart drew his attention to his immediate surroundings. He blearily blinked, clearing off the fringes of vision that stuck unhealthily to the corners of his vision. His bound hands were a clear indication of his captivity, but if it wasn't, the man sitting beside the driver, fingering a drawn blade that rested over his knees as he watched over the prisoners, left little doubt. That man and the driver of the cart were the only men on the wagon not bound. They were garbed in heavy armor, with metal helms strapped to their heads. Imperial Armor, the prisoner noticed, and had to stifle another groan.

_This is really all too familiar to not be a joke..._

Imperials walked around the cart, as well, not in files or ranks as the prisoner expected but haphazardly, wearily. A number rode on horseback farther ahead, where they surrounded another wagon laden with prisoners, and behind, but the majority were on foot. A few of them watched the prisoners, looks of disdain on their face, but the most just stared ahead or at the ground wearily, looking like a good night's sleep could do them good. Those that were looking at the prisoners, however, were doing so murderously. The prisoner glanced down at his right arm, and paused to offer gratitude that his captors had at least left him with clothes.

With a start, thinking of clothes made him realize that his sword was gone. _Of course it's gone, they took you prisoner, you fool_. And his dirks and his bow, too, but he cared little for those. A few of the arrows he'd fletched himself and were worth keeping, but those he could do without, as well. The sword, on the other hand...

He jerked around, knowing full well that it could be stowed away, knowing full well with a sinking of his heart that it could be lying lost in a shrub, miles and miles behind. By sheer luck, he caught sight of a solid black hilt, the engraving of a rusty red falcon wrapped around its hilt, riding on the hip of one of the horsemen behind the wagon in which the prisoner rode. As his gaze fell upon it, the officer who wore it glanced up and caught his eye with a scowl. Possessively, the man laid his hand on the hilt, as if to show the prisoner exactly who it now belonged to.

_I'll have that back_, the prisoner silently vowed, turning his eyes away. He couldn't do any more good there other than to win a staring contest, but he _would _have his blade back. Just as soon as he got out of this mess. Whatever this mess was.

Frowning, he shifted in his seat and tried to sit up, observing his fellow captives for the first time. Three men occupied the same wagon as he, all of them scuffed up, ragged, and bound, as well. The man across from the prisoner had the telltale build of a classic Nord, muscular and bearded with dirty blonde hair that brushed his shoulders. He was sitting with his head bowed, eyes deep in thought. The third and fourth members of the wagon sat facing each other in the back of the wagon. The man on the opposite bench as the prisoner was garbed in grimy rags and had a dirty face beneath black hair; he appeared young. _Too young to get caught up in a mess like this_, the prisoner remarked to himself, almost regretfully. The last man had similar features and wore very similar furs to the first, but had a gag and a kerchief wrapped around his mouth, inhibiting speech and probably making it none too easy to breathe, either.

This gagged man eyed the prisoner back as soon as he raised his head from unconsciousness, and he was struck with a strange indication that the man was not only important, but deadly. The prisoner had previously made a living judging people along the lines of such merits: he was inclined to trust his instincts in this case, as well. Something incredibly illusive and confident glinted in the Nord's eye, and even with little doubt in his own skill, the prisoner noted that it would probably be unwise to cross blades with this man. For the moment, though, they were both bound and captured, none a threat to anybody. Which was the first thing the prisoner needed to change.

"Hey, you... finally awake."

The prisoner turned back to face the ungagged Nord, who had spoken with a strong voice, rich and strongly accented with a northern drawl. Now that he thought of it, this man carried himself with an air of danger, too. Nevertheless, the prisoner rolled his shoulders and nodded. "Aye. What happened?"

"Imperial ambush," the Nord replied, and then leaned forward to spit at the back of the seat on which the Imperial drivers sat. Neither of the soldiers reacted. "Bah. A cowardly trap. We walked right into it, thinking our opponents to be braver men. And it looks like you walked right in after us."

_Ambush_. Imperials, setting ambushes in their own territory?

"How long?" The prisoner squinted, glancing up at the sun. He tested the bonds on his hands again, and they held as tightly as before. If he could get his teeth at them for long enough, he could probably have had them apart, but he wouldn't be able to do it without drawing the attention of their guards.

"Only a couple of hours," the Nord replied. He eyed the prisoner oddly. "Looked like you were just done crossing the border when you came upon this Imperial trap."

The prisoner glanced up. The road they traveled dipped sharply downhill, but the surrounding pine trees and the mountain rising at their back certainly matched what he remembered of southern Skyrim. The sun's positioning also confirmed that they were riding farther north, suggesting that at least, even if he seemed to have lost his mount, his weapons, and a few hours of his life, the Imperials hadn't entirely managed to ruin his travel arrangements. He was still traveling in the right direction.

He recalled the Nord's nonquestioning question and turned his attention back to the man, pondering an answer as he did so. "Did it?" he finally settled upon, allowing just enough of truth to sink through his voice to hopefully satisfy curiosity while letting the man know that privacy was a thing to be expected.

The Nord's eyes narrowed in suspicion. The prisoner almost sighed as the man glanced at his jet black, scruffy hair and his relatively beardless chin. "Where do you make your home, friend?"

He didn't really have time for this. Reasoning with Imperials usually worked as well as sweet-talking thieves, so he supposed he'd have to try a more aggressive attempt at evasion. With good timing, he good probably roll himself backwards from the cart and outrun his captors in their armor. Assuming, of course, that he managed to stick his landing. It would mean chancing the element of surprise against the reaction times of the several Imperial bows he could spot. He was a fair hand at making himself an unreliable target for an archer, but these men were expertly trained. Perhaps if he could make it off the road before they could draw once, he would be able to use the trees as cover while he made his escape... Then he could deal with the bindings later and be on his merry way. Short of weapons, food, and supplies, it still wouldn't be the worst off he'd ever been. At least he'd still have his clothes.

Except for that damned sword. He cursed silently. _That I need back_.

As he thought, weighing options, consequences, and what would happen should he simply sit there and allow them to go wherever they were going, the dirty boy across from the gagged man released a meager whimper. "Damn Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine till you came along. Imperials almost didn't give a damn what you took and what you didn't. If you hadn't've come by when you did, I wouldn't have been snared with you. I could be halfway to Hammerfell by now!"

"Could you, horsethief?" the Nord snarled, turning his attention away from the prisoner, for which the prisoner was grateful. He could spot a wisp of smoke rising in the distance. That may have boded ill; perhaps they were nearing their destination. "At the end of an Imperial pike is more likely, and only your head, at that. We're all brothers now, brothers in chains in the hands of Empire dogs."

The thief harrumphed, glancing at the prisoner. Both of their eyes fell to their bounds, and then the thief said, "You and me, we shouldn't be here, friend. It's the Stormcloaks the Imperials want, and it's the Stormcloaks they caught. But us, we should be free. You and me, maybe we—"

"Shut up back there!" the driver of the cart growled over his shoulder, jerked the horses to a brief halt to jolt the passengers before continuing their journey down the road.

The prisoner barely noticed. _Stormcloaks!_ That explained some. The last the prisoners had heard, the Stormcloaks were actually beginning to marshal themselves against Imperial forces. Windhelm in the north had entirely expelled the Empire's garrisons beneath its Stormcloak Jarl, and they were talks that some northern cities of Skyrim were spreading dissension against the Imperial Throne. The prisoner had only attributed them to be stories—the year wasn't complete without five or six good tales of rebellion throughout Tamriel—but if Stormcloaks in force were mobilizing as far south as the border with Cyrodiil—and indeed, the prisoners in the surrounding wagons indeed wore uniforms similar to the two Stormcloaks—then perhaps there was more merit to the rumors than the prisoner had been willing to believe.

After his angry command, the driver eyed the prisoner over his shoulder, and the prisoner decided he would have very little chance of surviving a dash to the trees, even with a clean landing. That left him with little to do but to wait to see where they were going. He didn't like it, but at least the sword was in plain view; he could track it. _Call it free passage._

The thief, apparently none too bright for his profession, ignored the driver, instead throwing an annoyed kick at the boots of the gagged Stormcloak. Before he could blink, the Stormcloak raised both of his boots from the floor of the wagon and slammed the thief full in the chest with both feet. Crying out in pain, the thief slumped back against the far seat, gasping in pain and for breath and scurrying as far away from the gagged man as was possible, eyeing him fearfully. The Stormcloak across from the prisoner threw his head back in wild northern laughter.

The thief made another blubbering sound, only making himself look all the younger. Perhaps fortunate that the Imperials had caught him, the prisoner conjectured; he would have been sacked and murdered halfway to Hammerfell anyway. Nevertheless, glaring harshly at the man who had kicked him in retaliation, the thief bravely, or perhaps stupidly, hissed, "Bloody Stormcloaks."

The first Stormcloak's laughter died on the spot. "You watch your tongue!" he growled, causing the thief to go floundering in the other direction. "You speak to Ulfric Stormcloak, fool! The High King of Skyrim!"

"The High King?" the prisoner repeated in surprise. He glanced at the gagged Stormcloak. He had never met the Jarl of Windhelm, but those stories circulated, as well. Ulfric was something of a legend in Skyrim, first for his service to the Empire during the Great War and then for his hatred for it. Despite those tales of war hero bravery, the prisoner was entirely shocked that the Imperials would allow a man opposed to the Empire to sit on the throne of Skyrim. Besides, he was shocked to know that the High King was dead. How had the Jarls had the chance to convene a Moot to elect the next ruler before word of it had reached his ears? "What happened to Torygg?"

Perhaps it wasn't the right thing to say. The first Stormcloak swung back to face him and released another growl of disapproval. "The fool pawn of the Empire? He was slain, in personal combat, by the new High King, who took the throne by right from the grubby paws of the Imperials! He is to usher in a new age of prosperity in Skyrim, once we throw off the chains the Empire seeks to lay upon us."

The prisoner listened in silence, contemplating. He avoided glancing at Ulfric. _So he _wasn't _elected. He simply claimed the throne. _Well, more outrageous things had been done in history, and Nords were probably most likely to accept an unconventional ascension more than any other nation. _Torygg as an Imperial pawn..._ Glancing at the Stormcloaks, wondering what actions of Torygg's they considered "pawn"-like, the prisoner couldn't help but wonder what kind of men he was in the company of. He himself didn't like the news of the High King's death, at all. The death of the monarch of Skyrim was never something to be celebrated, least of all in times of uncertainty for the realm. Least of all especially when the successor was a direct cause of that uncertainty.

"How long ago?" the prisoner questioned.

The Nord's eyes narrowed. "Some months. We were traveling south to treat with the Jarl of Whiterun for support, when these bastards took us by surprise. Skyrim must band together beneath its monarch again. All of Tamriel should. The Empire turned its back on Skyrim. What's to say it won't do the same to the other nations?" The Stormcloak paused, chewing his face as the two men watched each other. The prisoner forced himself to meet the man's gaze. "And where do your allegiances lie, traveler? You still haven't told us what you were doing crossing that border."

"I'm in the back of this cart, the same as you," the prisoner noted quietly. After considering, he added truthfully, "I have no love for the Empire."

They held each other's stare for another long moment before the Stormcloak finally nodded, satisfied, and sat back in the wagon. Once again, the prisoner watched the man's eyes travel over his dark hair, the scars on his face, his patched but sturdy clothing. "Where do you hail from, friend?"

The prisoner wasn't sure he knew how to answer that. The whole truth was dangerous, but much less so than was a partial truth or a lie. Once again, he glanced off into the pine trees surrounding the road and carefully considered his words before he answered, "I was born in Dawnstar."

"You're a Nord?" the thief blurted, surprised. "You don't look it."

"I disagree, thief," the Stormcloak said. Ulfric's eyes watched the prisoner, as well. Almost knowingly. "We come in many different colors, shapes, and sizes, but I don't think you can make that look of steel quite like a Nord can. I'm Ralof."

The prisoner decided that names couldn't hurt. "Will."

The thief sniffed. "That doesn't sound like a Nord's name."

"It's not," Will answered, glaring at the thief. It allowed him to keep an eye on his sword on the officer's horse. "I was named after my mother's father. She was born in the south."

"It seems you picked a bad time to come home, countryman," Ralof remarked grimly. "What business had you in Cyrodiil, anyway?"

"A job," Will told him truthfully. This time, Ralof did not push the cryptic answer, to which Will breathed a silent sigh of relief. The Stormcloak eyed his king, and the unease there suddenly made something occur to Will. "Where do the Imperials take us?"

Ralof glanced at him, and then down at the bonds on their hands. "I don't know. But wherever our destination may be, Sovngarde awaits, brethren. As I said, you picked a bad time to come home."

Will swore under his breath. He should have guessed it already; no wonder what the Imperials planned if they were furious enough to lay an ambush in safe territory. The prisoners were being carted to an execution, and Will, from personal experience, had little hope that the Imperials wouldn't differentiate between who was wearing Stormcloak colors in their wagons or not when they started shoving heads onto the chopping block. That meant he had little time to orchestrate an escape, especially when the smoke wisp had billowed into three separate strands and had split apart with sizable gaps separating them.

As the wagon rolled over a particularly ugly divot in the road, The first cottage wooden bastion came into view in the short distance, and Will cursed again. His time was up.

The thief had begun to rock nervously, Ralof's words spooking him. Will glanced onto the boy—hardly more than a child, really—with pity, all the while wondering how he had caught himself up in this mess. He did not plan to die that day; the mere thought infuriated him, after all he'd been through. On the other hand, he realized, if Ralof and Ulfric Stormcloak had truly resigned themselves to their execution as it seemed, what chance did Will himself have of slipping away? Perhaps with a bit of surprise he could make a bolt once they were unloaded... it wouldn't be as easy to escape once they reached the fort, but at least the guards would be less attentive there. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get his hands on that sword.

It wasn't a fort they approached, he noted, as the full walls came into view and opened into a view of a few cottages within. That would actually make things easier, with perhaps a gap between buildings that he could slip between. Will didn't recognize it, but he had long ago memorized every reliable map he could get his hands on. If the mountains he had descended in the previous days were the Jerall Mountains, and the massive peak at their backs was the Throat of the World, then the only village he could remember located on the slopes of this side of the mountain was...

"Helgen," Ralof observed. The Stormcloak barked another laugh, laced with an odd scent of pain, as the wagon rolled through the outer palisade. Imperial soldiers patrolled the walls in force. "They've occupied Helgen. Har. I was once sweet on a lass here, years and years ago. How the winds have changed, comrade."

Will could only nod, giving the guise of agreement while his mind rushed around the scene. The village was crawling with Imperials, a fact which made his heart drop. The wagons rolled through the streets with their escorts as though a normal caravan of goods, but the few villager women Will had see were quickly ushering their little ones indoors, their husbands standing on the porches with grim faces and crossed arms. Imperial guards were everywhere, including what even looked like a cavalry guard standing in reserve.

_What in Shor's name possessed me to come back to Skyrim? Why _now_?_

The wagons rolled onward, indifferent to the scurrying of the villagers around them. The procession rounded a number of stone buildings with arching roofs and then came into rest in a small courtyard in what Will suspected was the village square, judging by the inn sign and the shop sigils hanging from several awns. He was even more assured of the truth of his hypothesis when he beheld the giant stump waiting in the middle of the square, next to a man in Imperial colors who was leaning against a sizable axe. A headman's axe.

The executioner was not alone. Three other men stood beside him, bearing the golden-black armor of Imperial officers, officers of a much higher rank than those that rode with the caravan. The three were conversing in low tones, occasionally offering a comment or two to the executioner, as well. Two of them were fully garbed and had hands firmly grasping sword hilts to accompany their voices, but the third appeared relaxed, his helmet under his arm and his eyes calmly observing the arrival of the wagons laden with Stormcloaks. This officer was clearly the oldest of the three, and Will had little doubt that he was staring at the most powerful man in Helgen as he took note of the man's aged face, lines of weariness and experience crossing beneath a steely beard and the dark complexion of an Imperial. It was not a man Will had seen before, but something in his stoic, straight-backed stance told Will that he should know this man all the same.

Ralof filled the gap. "General Tullius."

The Stormcloak hissed the name like a curse, like a demon, and Will had to resist the instinct to duck himself in his seat, set aside how suspicious and conspicuous that would appear. _Fool_, he berated himself. _You don't know him, he can't possibly know you. You two have never been in the same province as each other before. You're safe from him_.

_Evidently not_, he amended, his heartbeat quickening as he eyed the executioner's axe. Perhaps the legendary Imperial general would not recognize him for his past, but the chances of the man forestalling the sentencing of a suspected crime on Will's word alone were slim. He was very close to beginning to panic, his eyes continuing to exacerbate the lack of possible escape routes Helgen was offering. He would have been furious at himself for falling into this awful trap, but he couldn't even remember enough of the circumstance to do so.

The wagons bustled into a tight pack around the square and the horses were reined in. The imperials dismounted, moving forward and unlatching the end hatches of the wagons. The Imperial driving their cart turned around and whacked Ralof on the shoulder with a gauntlet, sending the Stormcloak lunging towards Will. "Get out! All of you!"

Ralof eyed the man with a furious gleam in his eye, but he rose as commanded. Will considered hesitating for a very long as he joined the Stormcloak. The thief was whimpering now, jerking in his seat.

"No!" the young fool cried. "No, there's a mistake! I'm not with them! I'm not a Stormcloak! You've got the wrong man."

"Get him out of there," one of the Imperial officers barked at another. Will watched General Tullius out of the corner of his eye; the man looked as calm as a priest in meditation, as deadly as an Argonian with bared claws. His eyes watched the thief without pity, without remorse. Will's remaining hopes fell.

Two Imperial soldiers reached into the wagon and seized the man by the arms, dragging him up and over the edge of the cart, where he splayed in the mud and was wrenched to his feet kicking, still mumbling protests. The Stormcloak king, Ulfric, lifted himself slowly to his feet, glaring at Tullius with the hatred of ages, but stepped off of the cart and landed powerfully, with the grace of a warrior. Will hesitated once again, his eyes quietly searching for any opening, but the officer's gauntlet slapped against his back sharply, nearly evoking a hiss of pain, and he was forced to disembark with Ralof at his back. The Stormcloak was muttering oaths of revenge at the Imperials. Will wondered grimly how the man possibly intended to make good on his threats.

In their small group, they were herded like sheep with the larger party of prisoners until they were all grouped between the carts and the headsman. Stormcloaks shifted on their feet all around Will, many men bearing faces of fury towards their captors and a few women, as well. The wagon ring around them was like a seal, Imperial soldiers with swords ready to be drawn. He was trapped, like a rat in a lightless, scentless maze. Like a warrior who betrayed his masters. He gritted his teeth.

_I will not die here. I cannot die here._

"When your name is called, step forward and prepare yourselves!" an Imperial captain barked in a commanding voice, a woman in a full officer's helm, as she rounded a sturdy man of Imperial armor bearing a piece of parchment. "You have all been found guilty of treason against the Empire, conspiracy against the Empire, and rebellion against the Empire. The punishment for your crimes is death! Meet you end with an honor you did not show in life."

A chorus of shouts of fury rose from the Stormcloaks, a multitude of hateful screams and slanted insults heaved at the Imperials. Will did not join them. His situation was very grim. The Imperials stood strong, but several faces clenched as the Stormcloaks suggested it was _they_, the Nords among the Empire's soldiers, that had committed treason against Skyrim, and that Shor would see them burn before they made their journey to the promised land of their ancestors.

Over their rising shouts, the stout man lifted the parchment and barked, "Ulfric Stormcloak! Jarl of Windhelm!"

The furious roars intensified, and Will's heartbeat rose with them. He tested his bonds uselessly, glancing around him. The thief was nearly in tears, trembling from head to toe. Ralof wore only an expression of resignation and conviction, watching the Stormcloak king step forward courageously and walk to stand before the headsman, glaring at Tullius with fury as always. As the man went, Ralof sighed and bowed his head respectfully, so far as Will could tell. In a strong voice filled with reverence, he muttered, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood!"

The Stormcloak tensed slightly, but when he stepped forward it was with no less bravery than his jarl. Will bowed his own head in respect, still glancing about him. He would have to dive under a wagon, roll and pray to the Divines, beg for a mercy he did not deserve. Only the interference of a god would save him this day. Perhaps not even a miracle would be enough.

The names rolled on. The Stormcloak party joined their jarl and king one by one, many of them blaring obscenities at the Imperial guards as they went. Finally, only Will and the thief remained behind, and the man glanced between them and the parchment a few times, scratching at his chin, before bellowing, "Lokir of Rorikstead!"

Practically before the man was finished speaking, the thief lunged forward, his hands raised desperately. "No! Please! I'm not with them! Please! I'm not a traitor, not a traitor, I serve the Empire! I serve the emperor! Please! Take them! Kill them! They are traitors to their home, to hell with them and their kind! I'm not a rebel!"

"Shut up!" the captain screamed, taking a step forward and laying a hand on her sword. "Step forward and take your place, criminal!"

"No!" the thief howled, shaking. "You can't do this!"

Will saw it coming from a mile away. The thief was close enough to trip and prevent the mistake from happening, but it would only do worse for all of them. They would all die anyway.

Lokir of Rorikstead leaped forward, screaming, surprising both the man holding the parchment and the captain enough to throw them back a pace while he rushed by, still hollering his innocence. The captain swore and fumbled to draw her sword, but the thief was out of her arm's range and bolting for a divide in the wagons before she could land a swing.

The Stormcloaks all perked with interest, but Will knew better. Surprisingly, the thief made it to a gap before any soldiers could stop him, but the sprint to the gate of Helgen was a long one, and it was straight through the open square. At least six men around the circle of wagons had strung bows and arrows in their hands before Lokir had taken three steps past the gap. It was a matter of a split second before the Empire-trained marksman had fletchings drawn to cheeks. Will glanced at his boots as the hiss of released bowstrings echoed on the air. The thief didn't have enough time to even cry out, but Will firmly heard the heavy body fall into the mud.

The snide captain turned back to the Stormcloaks with a grim face of victory. "Anyone else feel like running? I thought not." She turned contemptibly back to Will, and Will found himself with a firm dislike for the woman. To the man with the parchment, she growled, "Finish the list. Let's get on with it."

Will lifted his head high. _So it'll be talking my way out of it after all_. The man with the parchment glanced down at his paper, his brow crinkling in obvious confusion. A glance between Will's face and back downwards made Will's hopes rise. Perhaps it wouldn't be as difficult as he'd feared.

"Who are you, Nord?"

"My name is Will. I don't know these Stormcloaks. I don't travel with them, fight with them, or consort with them. I knew nothing of this war until I woke in that damn wagon back there. Somehow I got roped into this whole thing by mistake. I'm a free man traveling the Empire, entering Skyrim from Cyrodiil, as is my right. I have done no wrong. You cannot lay crimes at my fight I haven't committed. Free me."

"What were you doing in Cyrodiil?" the man questioned. The captain was watching closely.

"Work," Will replied carefully. "An honest man's work. I swear to you by the gods, I take neither side in this war and all I want is to be on way. Keep my damn horse and my armor. Just give me back my sword and I won't trouble the Empire in its business."

The man surveyed him closely, squinting as if trying to see him better. Will waited, his breath held lightly in his chest, his life hanging in the balance of this single moment. With a heavy sigh, the man finally scribbled something at the base of the parchment and turned to the woman. "Captain, he's _not _on the list."

"Hang the fucking list," the captain swore. She wore as much hate staring at Will as she did towards the Stormcloaks. "He goes to the block. Maybe he'll pick better riding partners in hell."

Will froze, his mouth opening of its own accord. "I'm not with them, I said! Didn't you hear me, woman?"

The captain's teeth gritted, and she rounded on him, her hand once again against her sword. "I said To. The. Block. Hasten with your other traitor friends, or I'll save the headsman the trouble and finish you right here."

Will gnashed his teeth together and opened his mouth to make another angry retort, but before he had the opportunity to do so, a heavy, hard boot made contact with the middle of his back and sent him sprawling in the mud. His bound hands couldn't catch his body in time, and he splattered face first, coughing and spitting out dirty water as other hands hauled him back to his feet, dragging him forward. He was thrust forcefully at the other prisoners, and went down in a heap at their feet as well, sputtering and cursing through ragged breath.

A strong grip heaved him back to his feet once again, this one leaving him there as he tried to shake mud off of his face. Ralof looked him in the eye, a grim acceptance there. "A worthy effort, my friend. I'm truly sorry you meet this fate with us, but wish in another life you had chosen to die a hero of Skyrim, as well."

Another curse, directed at the Stormcloaks, surged to Will's lips and he only bit it back just in time. Instead, he swung his head away, resuming his search of the wagon line in vain. After seeing the thief be cut down so swiftly, he had no confidence left in his ability to dodge the archers. The buildings were too far away to dive between. The gate was altogether impossible. A final dread began to sink in, as the headsman hefted his ax almost eagerly.

The captain and man with the parchment marched to the side of General Tullius, whose eyes traveled over the Stormcloak prisoners with a grim, distorted look of satisfaction. The captain nodded to him, which he didn't seem to notice, but he reacted nonetheless, striding forward slowly and confidently. He was only a few paces away from the line of Stormcloaks when he finally halted. Had one of them thought to lash out, he probably would have been knocked to the ground. Indeed, many looked as though they had an urge to, but resigned eyes darted to Imperial bows already half-drawn and futile ideas died in Stormcloak hearts. Will was almost beyond caring whether it were arrow or axe that ended up taking him, but attacking the general would do no good or honor.

Tullius stood tall, his dark skin glinting in the afternoon sun. Only a foot or two away, a gagged Ulfric Stormcloak stared back with ferocity. The general gave no indication of intimidation. The two men stared into each other's eyes hatefully for a long moment until the general began to speak in a flat tone. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some in Helgen call you a hero. A true Nord, a man of legend, a warrior sent by the gods themselves." The general grunted fiercely, his lips curling in disgust. "What hero? Heroes don't use gifts like the Voice to murder kings and usurp thrones. Heroes don't set aside men, women, and children, slaughter entire species, and sentence others to death simply because they do not agree. If you were supposed to be a legend, the gods will laugh at your pitiful mistakes for millennia to come."

The bound jarl roared furiously behind his gag and took a step forward, so that he and the general were nose-to-nose. Tullius didn't flinch as the Stormcloak seized him underneath the plates of his chest armor. By the time Ulfric's hands had found a firm grip, four Imperial soldiers had the tips of drawn swords hovering inches from his throat. For a long moment, frozen in time, the two men hung in a balance of fury, poise, and discipline. Will threw his eyes around, thinking to use the inflammation of tempers as a distraction, but the Imperial wall was as solid as iron.

Finally, the jarl violently retracted his hands from the general's armor, though he didn't move backwards. The general stared back as contemptibly as ever. Will was close enough to hear his low reply. "You protect Skyrim, traitor? You destroy it. You have plunged it into war and chaos, not we. You would stand trial in the Imperial City, so that the emperor himself may look down upon you and scorn, but we will stand no more time to let our people in these lands fall beneath your tyranny. You die here, Stormcloak, and your petty revolt will die with you."

Ulfric's working jaw suggested he had choice words of reply for the general, but they were muffled as a strange groan that seemed to reverberate across the entire mountainside washed across Helgen. The Imperials all looked up, turning towards the mountainside with hands reaching for weapons. Will had taken a step in preparation for his dash to freedom when they began to turn back with the discipline of soldiers of the Empire. The Stormcloaks, on the other hand, ducked their heads, releasing curses down to a man.

When he stopped thinking of escape and actually glanced up after it as well, the roar intensified and left the hair on the back of Will's neck stand up. A shudder shot down his spine involuntarily, his fists clenching. He had never heard such a roar. Not once in Skyrim. Not once elsewhere. It sounded like... almost like an eagle. If there were eagles the size of bears in Skyrim. Which he had never known to be the case.

General Tullius and Ulfric Stormcloak seemed to be the only two men in the town who hadn't cringed. As it was, the general glanced up at the mountain, his eyes trailing cautiously across the sky. His eyes crinkled, the barest hint of emotion pacing around them as though he were prey preparing to turn the tide against his predator. Moments passed. The general turned his back on the Stormcloaks with a grim set to his jaw and strode back to the captain's side, nodding to her as he came set with a hand on his sword hilt. His eyes crossed the sky once more as the captain loudly ordered a brown-robed woman who appeared to be Helgen's priestess to give the Stormcloaks their last rights.

The wrinkle-skinned woman and her proud voice were like anchors pulling taut against Will's mind, dragging him into the past. "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved home and savior. Let not the sins of your past carry you onward, but let the understanding of your wrongs lead you to the path of light and glory, for what you have committed, not even the Divines will take back, yet even—"

"Oh, for the fucking love of Talos," a Stormcloak swore heavily and loudly, cutting off the priestess and Will's uncomfortable memories. Shouldering lightly past one of his comrades, the man strode forward angrily, earning pointed swords from the Imperials but making no aggressive action other than his furious face. His path took him directly before the block, where he glared at the headsman defiantly. "Shut up, bitch. Let's get this over with."

The priestess took a step back as though slapped, but her cross expression implied there would be no love for the Stormcloak at all in the next realm. "Very well," she muttered unhappily, and stepped back with crossed arms.

"Come on," the Stormcloak hissed. He spat at the boots of General Tullius, who did not flinch once again. "I haven't got all fucking day."

The female captain stepped forward and landed a strong kick to the man's backed, armored boots and all, and he dropped to his knees with a grunt of pain at the base of the chopping block. The captain placed the heel of her foot where she kicked him and thrust him down so his head was a clear shot. The Stormcloak's face pressed into the block, facing away from the headsman. The giant man lifted his axe, testing its weight once as he started to drag it over his head.

Ralof bowed his head but kept his eyes trained on his comrade, who jerked his head around on the block in a final attempt to glare at the captain. "My ancestors are smiling upon me, bitch. Yours are getting arse-fucked by Talos. Go to hell."

The captain didn't flinch. The headsman heaved. The axe fell, followed a moment later by the Stormcloak's head. The captain kicked the body off of the block with a look of disgust, and two Imperials rushed forward quickly to collect it as blood poured into the dirty square of Helgen.

A chorus of shouts rose around the surrounding buildings. Some of them cursed the Imperials. Others cheered for another execution. Will glanced around, at neighbors on completely different sides of a war they would never see. _I've been a very long time away from Skyrim_, he thought to himself as he watched the body being dragged away. Ralof did the same, but the man's only offered words were, "As fearless in death as he was in life. Rest easy, Berek. We will drink in Sovngarde soon."

Will barely had time to glance at the Stormcloak's straight face before the captain's voice overrode all other thought. "The unlisted. He dies next!"

His head jerked up, his arms braced. He didn't know his course of action, but the Imperials were already there. There were three: he could have overpowered them easily unbound. Even with his hands tied off, there was a possibility he could so and still be healthy enough to run. Escaping the gates in such a condition was out of the question. There was no time to resist anyway: in the moment it took to tense and weigh his options, two of them seized him by the arms and heaved him forward towards the block.

He went without a struggle. This was it. The captain and General Tullius watched him approach, oblivious to his name, oblivious to his past, oblivious to his nature. Will forced his face straight as he stared back at them, mind still calculating. He would not die now, not without a damn good fight; a day away from Skyrim or a lifetime, he was a Nord, and in the eyes of powers above he would be damned before he didn't die like one.

He let himself be pushed to his knees before the headman's block, and slowly lowered his neck down before the captain got a chance to plant her boot in his back. Had she done so, disarming her would probably absorb enough time for the archers to recover. As it was, as he glared up at the headman, he would have seconds to gain his feet as the man lifted his axe high, catching the man off-balance and hopefully a weapon.

Two fists to the stomach. One to the jaw as the man tried to recover. Seize the axe by the blade and sever his bonds before the captain managed to draw her sword. Hand-to-hand if he had to, with steel in his fist if he could.

Perhaps his miserable existence would finally end. But at least it would end well.

The headsman lifted his axe with both arms. Will watched it rise above his head, gearing the muscles in his legs to pounce.

The sun blinked, and Will forgot all about fighting.

Something blotted out the sky, a shape so large that its unfurled length obscured the mountain behind it as it hurtled to the earth. His head only seconds away from being detached from his body, Will still couldn't hold back a gasp of shock as several Imperial guards, Stormcloaks, and villagers cried out in surprise. The black shape crashed into the top of a tower and landed in a cloud of destruction, stone and dust and dirt erupting in a shockwave. In the barest second before impact, as massive wings folded to a tar body, Will caught sight of two red eyes staring out of a steel-snouted skull of darkness.

The axe had fallen halfway to the block when the force of the beast's fall threw the ground out from underneath Will and the headsman. Will was tossed to a side, the blade of the dropped axe striking off of stone bare inches from his face as the headsman was knocked off of his feet. Spinning and flopping in the dirt, he caught sight of Imperial soldiers and bound Stormcloaks lurching back to their feet, staring in horror up at the creature perched on top of the tower.

As Will rolled onto his knees and wrists, he too glanced up at the black monster as it lifted its head to the sky and roared so loud that Will cried out in pain and tried to shove his forearms over his ears. The roar abated, leaving him gasping in relief, but that lasted only as long as the beast turned its horrible head towards the square, crimson eyes glaring into the terrified faces of men and women.

Then the dragon opened its maw and flames leapt out.

Years of ingrained instinct tossed Will to his feet and caused him to take three massive steps towards the shelter of the wagons before he left his feet in a mad dive. He hit the mud at the base of the wheels in a splatter, but dove under the bed just in time to feel fire lick at his heels. Gasping in the face of the heat, he rolled deeper under the wagon as the flames bombarded it, only barely safe from the dragon's barrage. Agonized screams nearly as loud as the dragon's roar suggested others had not nearly been so lucky.

The image of the dragon perched across the tower drove a solid spike of fear into Will's heart. _A dragon! In Skyrim? By the Divines, how is this possible?_

Abruptly, the river of fire stopped, and Will wasted no time in scurrying from underneath his burning sanctuary. The wagon was in steady flames by the time he rolled out, along with most of the others. The massive shadow that lurched across the square indicated that the dragon had taken flight, but he didn't look up to make sure. Across the square, Imperial soldiers were scurrying out, archers lifting bows into the air and loosing arrows, others drawing swords and looking wildly outmatched. Writhing bodies burned between the wagons, including what looked to be the headsman and the Imperial captain. General Tullius was nowhere to be seen, charred or not. Nor was Ulfric Stormcloak. Had he had time, Will would have offered a prayer for his narrow escape.

Staggering upwards, he searched around quickly for more cover, preferably unburnt. The villagers were fleeing, darting in all directions whilst screaming at the tops of their lungs. A few Imperials were hastily hording them behind a line the soldiers were forming, but Will frowned at them. _What line can stand against a dragon, fools? Run!_

He took his own advice, turning and charging for the nearest building. He was halfway to it when all of a sudden Ralof was at his side, the Stormcloak's bounds gone and a short hatchet in his hands. Will didn't question it and nor did the Stormcloak as they hurtled for the narrow gap between two stone buildings side-by-side.

Will reached it first, and wasted no time running down half its length. Heaving terrified breath, he leaned his back against the wall there, gasping. The air was hot. The smell of ash and char had already set it heavily. Somewhere unseen, the dragon roared to the sky. It would be back.

Ralof joined him against the wall. "The Divines smile upon you, Will of Dawnstar. On Helgen, they have cast a demon of Oblivion."

"It couldn't have struck at a better time," Will hissed back. Screams flooded the air and the sound of flames bursting into the air echoed from beyond their hiding place. Ralof's eyes tightened and Will flinched. "But perhaps the place could have been different."

Ralof said nothing, but beckoned for Will's hands. Will offered them after only the slightest hesitation, watching the Stormcloak hack through the bonds with the hatchet with a practiced approach.

As soon as they were cut, Will cast them off with a growl of distaste. "Thanks."

"Aye."

As Ralof turned his gaze upwards with a scowl, a pair of Stormcloaks rushed into the alley after them. Will tensed, but they merely hit the wall on the other side of Ralof and bent over their knees, gasping for breath. A black shape swung over the visible square beyond the safety of the gap in the buildings, loosing another jet of fire. A burning, screaming body of unintelligible gender or features stumbled into the mud and fell; Will braced himself against the wall as a new stench curdled the air: burning flesh.

"Where is the jarl?" Ralof demanded of the newcomers.

"He... ran for the buildings... last I saw," one of them gasped. "Two... or three down..."

Ralof glanced upward with a grim expression. Will touched his arm, his mind churning. Every moment he expect black talons to tear stones from the buildings above their heads and fire to flood the alleyway. "We can't stay here."

The Stormcloak glanced at him and nodded. He took the nearest of his comrades by the arm and pushed him lightly towards the opening to the alley they'd entered. "To the jarl! Then we've got to find a way out of this godforsaken town!"

Both of the new men looked as though they considered returning to the square suicide, but whatever was on Ralof's expression must have changed their finds, for one glance at his face sent them scurrying back for the opening. Will followed closely, watching the three pause at the entrance. Ralof held them by the shoulders, glancing at the sky, and as the dragon swooped by and soared high off for another approach, he shoved them into the square and yelled, "Go!"

The four leapt into motion, Will hot on their heels. In the open, smoldering bodies were everywhere. Will bit back fury as he rushed a blackened body not even half his height, forced himself to ignore the anguishing cries of a flameless body that was black as a cinder. Imperials were scurrying about on the little unburned ground, launching useless arrows into the air or still making an attempt to shelter screaming villagers. High in the sky, the dragon spread its wings wide and caught the wind in preparation to dive for Helgen once more, and the three Stormcloaks and Will charged forward with no intention to still be in the street when it came back down.

A glint of red in the corner of his eyes brought Will to a dead stop as he reared to face it.

The black hilt of his sword stuck out from under a body of back armor. The poor bastard had boiled in his armor, his face burned from the flames so horribly that the bone of his skull was exposed to air. Will had only a split second to decide, but with a hurled oath he scrambled against the mud and tore for the body. He dropped into a slide in the mud, conscious that the dragon was diving, and seized his sword by its sheath and hilt in both hands, heaving.

The blackened, brittle strap snapped off easily as Will ripped it away, and with an anxious glance upwards he cried out and took off for where the Stormcloaks had been headed.

They had reached another alley, where, from the looks of it, three or four others of their number were already sheltering. Ralof had frozen at the mouth, whirling when he realized Will was no longer following, and as their eyes locked across a hundred feet of the square's ground, the Stormcloak bellowed and gestured for Will to hurry.

Will obliged. He felt the dragon hurtling towards the village, knew he had only seconds. Running faster than even he had thought he could, he soared past Ralof, dragging the man into the alleyway with him, and dove into its safety with the Stormcloaks. As if he'd only barely missed it, a barrage of flames blanketed the square, flicking into the mouth of the alley. Will could feel the heat on the back of his beck and arms as he collided with the back of a Stormcloak, dragging Ralof with one hand and clutching his sword with the other.

The Stormcloaks and he clung to the walls of the alley, praying, until the stream abated. Falling apart with gasps of relief, Ralof leaned against the wall opposite Will and glared at him. "You like to cut it close, friend. That's twice now."

"I've got a history," Will spat back ironically, unsmiling. Ralof's eye turned to his sword, and he clenched his hand protectively.

"Must be some sword," the Stormcloak remarked. He said no more about it, turning instead and pushing past one of the Stormcloaks to face another. "Jarl Ulfric, what in hellfire is that bloody thing? The legends... could they be true?"

Will started. He had not recognized the man in front of Ralof, ungagged and unbound as he was. Ulfric Stormcloak stood taller than he, with a burly jaw and a thick beard. His eyes smoldered with sparks, his flowing auburn hair stretching past his shoulders. Those eyes fell across Will for a long moment before they turned back to Ralof grimly. "Legends don't burn down towns."

A roar shook the buildings around them. The Stormcloaks glanced upwards in terror. Will gripped the hilt of his sword instinctively, though he was in much too close quarters to actually draw it. He and the Stormcloak king once again locked eyes, and he said, "We can't stay here."

"No," Ulfric agreed. "Scatter, men! Find more of your brethren, travel in pairs! Get out of this inferno! Find the road! If you find no one, take the journey to Windhelm! We will all meet again in the Palace of the Kings!"

In a brilliant showing of courage and idiocy, the king seized one of the Stormcloaks nodding and rushing to the entrance and together the two of them tore into the open out the backside of the alley. The others watched them go, before another two of them charged out and another two, leaving only Ralof and Will left in the alley. There was no fire on the air, but the dragon was lurking. The square was a mass of flames behind them. There was no going back.

Ralof hovered at the mouth, his eyes on the sky. "This is a dark day. Shall we live to see another?"

"Should we, I fear we'll only find it darker," Will muttered. He pried his grip from the hilt of his weapon; swords would do no good against dragons. With a glance back at Ralof, he barked, "Shall we burn, then?"

Ralof grunted. "Aye."

With a beast of legends bearing down upon them from unseen heights, the two of them tore out into the burning street. Cries of alarm and pain still pierced the air, but they were distant now. Flames, on the other hand, were spreading from building to building quickly. Smoke covered the sky, all but obscuring a black shape that hovered for another pass. Seeing it, Will swore and took off down the extent of the wall. Even that was on heavy fire, flames already coating the sturdy wood from base to the sharpened tips of the top.

The two of them sprinted, Will assuming Ralof was leading them to one of the city's gates. They rushed into a quarter of the village that was heavy in flames, so dense and strong that the heat alone nearly knocked Will to his knees as they rushed forward, completely setting aside the smoke. As it was, Ralof and he were battered by that, as well, doubling over as they coughed the blackness from their lungs. The air became thick and vision became limited, so much so that they didn't notice the burning remnants of a toppled building spilling into and blocking the street until they were all but upon it.

"We're trapped!" Will bellowed.

Ralof may have nodded, but it was lost in his coughing. "We have to go back! Our only hope's the gate on the east side!"

No sooner had he spoken than did Will glance back the way they'd come, and the dragon, as if on cue, bored straight through a building one hundred feet before their position. The impact, though distant, once again tossed them off of their feet, sending them to the ground into dirt of cinders while stones and splinters showered into the street.

The dragon roared to the sky. Will scrambled back to his feet, clutching the sword and heaving up Ralof at the same time. He scanned the fields of fire wildly, from the wall of the city to the buildings inside to the piles of smoking rot blocking their paths. They were well and truly trapped now. And, sooner, or later, if the flames didn't catch them first, the dragon would.

"Come on!" Will screamed, as Ralof coughed. "We've got to move!"

"Where?" the Stormcloak howled. "There's nowhere to go! The gates are destroyed!"

A growl of fury left Will's lips as he swung around, and he lurched around once more until his eyes fell upon the burning wall of Helgen, where strips of logs already toppled away from the strong fence in flurries of sparks. _Hell..._

"Son of a bitch," he howled to himself, but he only hoisted Ralof up on his own and hissed, "When you're out of gates, you have to make a new one."

The Stormcloak glared at him in confusion. Will turned and took off for the burning wall, hurtling as fast as he could run straight at it. He gripped the sheath of the sword hard enough to break skin, forcing pain into his body so he didn't think twice about what he was doing. Hearing Ralof cry out in alarm behind him, he only had time to grit his teeth and growl in preparation before he launched himself off of his feet and lowered his shoulder and the crackling wall.

Blessedly, it burst under his weight. As his skin scalded against the fire, a chunk of the destroyed wall as tall as Will and just as wide broke off beneath the charge from his body, bursting outwards in yet another fiery shower. It collapsed to the ground beyond the fence line, bursting into a dozen other pieces as Will tumbled over it. He cried out as the glowing flakes of charred wood seared his skin, but a moment later he rolled into dirt and brush, free as of yet of any fiery residue, and laid gasping on the ground, heat still licking his skin, as he watched what was left of Helgen burn.

In a fiery silhouette, Ralof burst through the hole he had created, clothing and cuirass smoking. The Stormcloak didn't pause. Reaching down, he seized Will by the shirt and pulled him back to his feet with hardly a grunt of effort. "You bastard. That was one hell of an idea."

A splitting roar shoved them into motion, Will stumbling along beneath a head so smoky he could barely keep his feet. He forced himself to follow Ralof as they charged into the trees, dodging in and out as if the Imperials followed them. Which was a doubtful conclusion, all things considered.

They ran for minutes, until finally Will's head cleared and he realized they were charging downhill. He finally dared to glance over his shoulder, back in the direction of Helgen. The glow of flames seemed a good distance off now, but the black shape roving through the air above them did not, which spurred Will harder into motion. He didn't know how quick a dragon could fly, but he certainly wanted to be as far as possible before he acknowledged that he could move no more.

So they ran. They darted in between trees, plummeting down the side of the mountain as it distantly sloped level with the valley in between the southern ranges of Skyrim. Off to the south on their left, distantly, the Jerall Mountains rose, shielding the Nord province from Cyrodiil. To the northeast, the Throat of the World rose higher than the sky, it's peak hardly visible in the waning sunlight. Behind their backs, smoking formed a cloud as black as night, with a horrible shadow darting in and out and occasionally spewing a fountain of red and gold.

"It seems we'll live to die another day," Ralof commented to Will with heavy breath as they ran.

Will nodded, but the echoes of screams long dead filtered into his deepest thoughts instead of Ralof's words. The roars that pierced the air were now only rebounds off of the rock, a distant cascade of sound that was all that was left of Helgen. Ash rose in the distance like the spirits of the dead—men, women, children all—and the billows of smoke drifted away into the mountains, like the melody of a haunting lament. They kept running, ever away from the teeth of destruction, ever farther down into the valley of their homeland.


End file.
